


Disillusioned (Under a Starless Sky)

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Erebor, M/M, Politics, Thorin's crooked smile, the woodland realm, young prince Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3362879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elves only love once in a lifetime and with the whole of their being; Thranduil has already loved and lost once, yet faced with the young prince of Erebor whom he meets during the alliance talks with the King Under the Mountain, he finds himself with the familiar emotion resurfacing in his heart and soul. In that moment begins a relationship which will change them both and will last throughout decades: even when the world burns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Illusion (The Starlight in Your Smile)

**Author's Note:**

> Young prince Thorin is a little arrogant shit. Thranduil finds himself very much on the verge of disliking him. Erebor, however, he is vastly impressed with - even if Dwarven table manners repulse him and his own heart confuses him a lot.

1.

The young prince, Thranduil notices immediately, is simply stunning for lack of another word. It's not the kind of beauty the Elvenking would naturally associate with a Dwarf, if the term could even apply to the particular brand of appearance sported by the folk proud and hard as stone; or so Thranduil explains to himself the fact that he has quite literally been caught staring by the object of his fascination. Of course, he refuses to acknowledge, even in his mind, that he has been admiring the sharp, handsome features and the clear, bright blue eyes of the young prince; the same eyes that narrow slightly, that glint dangerously as they hold his gaze with not an ounce of hesitation or humility. Indeed, the prince openly stares back, assessing the Elvenking as though he were a common wench that he could bed were he so inclined. Finishing his appraisal, he smirks.

He should be listening intently to what King Thrór is saying about the riches of his mountain and the alliance that would benefit both their peoples, as that is only courteous, and yet Thranduil finds himself wondering about the one precious jewel that Thrór doesn't keep hidden from the world in his vast treasury: that exotically beautiful grandson of his, with the arrogant smirk and unfairly attractive features, taller than most of his kin, with yet not much hair on his chin, but with enough guts to look at the Elvenking like he thinks he's his equal – or superior to him, somehow.

Oh, but Thranduil is as far from frowning at the unwarranted attention as he could be. His mind supplies him with fantasies of the prince, of how he would touch and taste and smell with awkwardness and reluctance of youth, how he would fumble clumsily in shared passion, and how Thranduil would be patient and caring in return, undoubtedly the prince's first lover, the teacher of intimacy. He can imagine the sounds that would be ripped from between the thin lips in the throes of passion, and ah, surely the smirk would vanish from the prince's lips, replaced by a most delicious expression of pure bliss.

How he manages not to slip up and remain neutral throughout his audience with King Thrór without causing a diplomatic incident, he doesn't really know. Later in his assigned bed chambers, Thranduil wonders about it, but soon the thought is gone from his head as he begins to brush his hair, still wet from the bath he has just taken. He is genuinely impressed with the guest baths in Erebor, built to an elaborate design that not only allowed him to submerge his body fully in warm water, but also to add bath salts, scented oils and other supplies through use of a complicated lever system. This same mechanism could be used to heat up or cool down the bath water. A luxury worthy of kings and kings' guests – yet, as far as Thranduil is aware, it is a commoner's pleasure here. If this alliance works out as he hopes, maybe he can convince Thrór to share the secret and the engineers to install one of those in the Elvenking's own rooms back in the Woodland Realm.

Maybe Thrór would send his grandson to overlook the construction.

'What am I thinking,' Thranduil says out loud to the empty room. This, in itself, is strange behaviour for him, but the undercurrent of desire that warms up his loins is stranger still. He is not prone to bouts of physical attraction so strong as to provoke a reaction from him, he never has been, not even in his youth – but even so, his body flushes at the lustful images of the young prince yet again invading his mind.

He doesn't even know the prince's name!

'Oh, I am curious indeed what it is that goes around in that pretty head of yours,' says a strange, rich and smooth voice from the corner of the room close to the door, where the flickering candlelight doesn't reach too well.

Startled, Thranduil looks up, just to find himself trapped with but an intense gaze boring into him. The prince, whose voice now can be said to complement his appearance to a most pleasing degree, is leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, and there's that smirk of dark amusement on his face. He's dressed informally in a loose tunic with rolled up sleeves that expose muscular forearms – Thranduil is most certainly not admiring them – and a pair of breeches. He is barefoot on the cold floor, but he doesn't seem bothered by this in the least.

His eyes, locked with Thranduil's, are burning hot.

'How long have you been here?' The Elvenking asks, mortified, aroused, mortified at his arousal. He wills himself to continue to brush his hair, pretending not to be acutely aware of his own near-nudity: only a flowing silken robe hides his body from plain view. The prince must know this as well.

'Long enough to see more than any of your admirers ever have,' the prince replies and his smirk widens a fraction as he adds, 'it was a nice view. I shall commit it to memory for long Winter nights to come.'

'Is it your people's custom to not only show rudeness to a guest by intruding on his privacy and refusing to apologize, but to add more insult?' Thranduil asks in irritation – with himself more so than with the prince, because the words made his cheeks redden like some flighty maiden's, and his heart beat faster in excitement. It is a most unusual reaction to arrogance, one that he feels is like an enchantment, but he knows not of witches among Dwarves.

What a foolish thought!

The prince outright grins at him, pushes away from the wall and, in a few strides, stands right in front of him. Thranduil hesitates for a moment where he sits at the edge of the large bed made up with the finest linens just for him; he has no escape. He looks up at the prince.

He's trapped.

'I meant you no insult, O Elvenking,' the prince says in a low, throaty murmur that sends chills running down Thranduil's spine. 'Indeed, I was merely stating a fact I believed to be common knowledge – or is it so that the mighty ruler of the Woodland Realm knows not of how beautiful he is?'

'Cease this nonsense,' Thranduil snaps. Feigning indifference, he turns his back on the prince and reaches to the night stand to put away the fine comb he has been using. The prince picks it up and doesn't ask for permission before he gently begins to brush the Elvenking's hair.

Despite himself, Thranduil relaxes into the almost caress-like motion; his scalp is ridiculously sensitive, which is why normally he doesn't let anyone touch his hair. The prince, however, is persistent: and also delicate and firm at the same time as he combs the long tresses carefully. He discards the comb after a while and uses his hands to part some hair from the top of Thranduil's head into three thick strands. He then divides them as well and begins to plait them into braids that he then arranges into a rather elaborate hairstyle. He hums while he is doing it, a melody that the Elvenking has heard before but cannot quite place. It's soothing, although the calm doesn't last long. Finished and evidently pleased with his handiwork, the prince unexpectedly tugs on Thranduil's hair, forcing him to bend his head slightly backwards, towards him – and, arrogant and assumptive and bold, the Dwarf kisses him flush on the lips.

It's different both to what Thranduil is used to and to what he imagined it could be. The prince dominates the kiss, controls the pace expertly and it's clear that he is no stranger to this particular activity. His mouth is hot and hard, and everything feels so completely different to any other kiss Thranduil has shared in his long life: rougher around the edges, somehow, but not in a bad way. As though he's intoxicated, the Elvenking gives in, relinquishes full control to the prince, who takes advantage of this by pushing his tongue into Thranduil's mouth in a lustful exploration. Thranduil closes his eyes and makes a small sound in the back of his throat, a sound immediately muffled by the kiss. He wants to run. He wants to stay. He wants many contradictory things at once and it makes his head spin.

The prince breaks the kiss too soon, yet he still leaves Thranduil breathing erratically. The Elvenking tries to calm himself, to will his heartbeat to return to normal. The prince, he realizes, is watching him in amusement. He suddenly understands that he has quite possibly been played. Oh, what a picture he must make: the king of the Woodland Realm laid almost bare, entertaining the notion of becoming intimate with another male, and a Dwarf at that; shame fills him and he wants to look away, but he cannot find it in himself to drop his gaze from the prince's mesmerizing eyes.

'My name is Thorin,' the prince says, smirking, and even though the sound of his voice is still warm and pleasant, Thranduil finds himself illogically annoyed with it. 'Remember it for later when you touch yourself to impure thoughts of me, O mighty Elvenking.'

He tugs on Thranduil's hair one last time and leaves swiftly, not once looking back. The chambers seem much colder when he's gone. Thranduil tries to hide from his shame under the bed sheets in the throes of sleep. He does not touch himself to thoughts of the Dwarven prince – to thoughts of Thorin – and at least in that preserves his dignity.

Even though the blue eyes and the arrogant smirk haunt him in his sleep.

 

2.

The morrow comes and finds the Elvenking hardly well-rested. It's a chore to get out of bed, brush his hair and dress himself, but he wills himself to do so with utmost care. He refuses to let the prince's taunt turn into a victory, and so he buries the humiliation of the disastrous evening under layers upon layers of pride and haughtiness. So emotionally armoured, Thranduil feels ready to join the royalty of the Lonely Mountain in breaking fast.

During the meal, he observes again the despicable table manners the Dwarven race are keen to show: they eat loudly and with no restraint, no elegance to be found in the way they chew with their mouths open and how they allow crumbs and droplets of food and beverages run down their beards to create unappetizing messes. The king, he notes, is the same: borderline barbaric as he attempts to engage Thranduil in an idle conversation on the value of books while stuffing his mouth with bread and cheese, so that the more heated arguments he utters send pieces of both flying across the table. The Elvenking makes an effort not to display his disgust and he thinks he succeeds; he hides a frown behind the cup of water he takes small gulps from and behind his hand when he brings up pieces of neatly cut fruit to his lips.

The prince is notably absent during the meal. Thranduil finds it prudent to ask about it, and even to himself he will not admit to the genuine curiosity about the prince's whereabouts. The king doesn't seem to judge the question as anything but an expected courtesy and he returns it in kind by answering:

'Oh, he barely takes his meals with company,' he says, followed by a bout of jovial laughter. 'The lad is a loner, that he is, but smart. In time, he shall learn to appreciate a good feast with good companionship. Not to worry, though,' the king pauses, crosses his eyes and belches loudly. Thranduil doesn't make a face, but it's a close call.

'He will be there for the feast tonight, my friend,' Thrór continues, never noticing a thing of the Elvenking's reaction to his unsightly behaviour, 'since it is as much a celebration of our alliance as it is an anniversary of his birth.'

'Oh,' says Thranduil. 'I was not aware of this. How many years has it been since the prince was born?' He asks, guessing that it is expected of him.

'Twenty four today,' replies the king. 'Almost a child still, and yet so far he is from playing games of boyhood. It worries me, my Elven friend,' he confides, lowering his voice, 'for lads his age should find their pleasure in chasing after wenches and in hunting with friends. Thorin, a good boy as he is, spends his time with books and with sword. Has the royal upbringing burdened him so in his young age that he can no longer seek to busy himself with trivial matters?'

'Children are often different from what we imagine they would be,' Thranduil states and thinks of Legolas, his only child, who is growing up to be a fierce warrior and a loyal friend to his peers, but never a king and never his heir: unlike, it seems, the cocky young prince of the Lonely Mountain, born for royalty and already content with his role.

'That they are, that they are,' king Thrór agrees. 'Say, my Elven friend, would you consider accompanying me on a tour of the city after our meal is concluded?' He proposes, already enthusiastic at the idea. Thranduil supposes that, as many great rulers are wont to be, Thrór is especially proud of his stronghold of a city. It is likely this pride that drives the urge to show off before another king that Thrór, likely due to the unfortunate limitations his race forces upon him, sees as lesser than himself - yet not the least less worth of impressing for it.

Dwarves, he finds with but a hint of dismay, are an interesting people: greedy and stubborn, thick-headed and unrefined – but true and loyal, with a sense of honour stronger than what Thranduil is used to in dealing with inferior folk. What he most likes in his interactions with the mountain dwellers is that they have not an ounce of cruelty in them, not a single thread of it in the seams that hold them together: this particular ugly trait was spared them by their creator in the days before time, so long past. He has only ever heard of unintentional cruelty in Dwarven people, and even that would only occur when their minds were stolen by desire for possession.

Gold sickness, they call it and fear it above all calamities.

Yet despite his love for treasure-hoarding, Thrór the King Under the Mountain is far yet from falling victim to his greed: stronger, perhaps, than many. Durin's Folk, Thranduil concludes, must be especially exceptional among the Dwarven clans. Unlike the people who had once slain a King of Elves in a kingdom long devoured by a rain of fire and a rage of the sea, Thrór and his folk, despite their numerous flaws, are trust-worthy enough to enter an alliance with.

Even if their young prince is an arrogant brat.

Why, oh why do his thoughts keep returning to the prince and his loathsome smirk? Even as he graciously accepts Thrór's offer and excuses himself from the table under the pretence of requiring preparation in order to join a tour, his mind keeps replaying both the words exchanged with Thorin and the shared kiss, the timbre of the prince's voice and the firmness of his touch. It's not like he has never found a male attractive before, that would be a lie – but Thranduil knows this is not a mere matter of opinion: not a judgement of the prince's assets, so to speak, and instead a genuine attraction unlike anything he has experienced before.

_Do not presume to lie to yourself about it_ , a tiny voice inside his head speaks up, the subconscious advisor of thousands of years lived, the part of his mind that is rational when the rest of him is not and that is irrational when he holds on to cool logic. _Oh, you will never forget the time when your soul sang with joy at her every smile, nor will you forget how her touch could awaken a fire in your loins. Do not lie to yourself – the attraction you harbour towards him is the same._

But of course it is not the same, and he scoffs at himself for even thinking it. The notion that this physical craving of his body may even aspire to measure up to _that_ time in his life is ridiculous at best, and he blames it on a restless night that he would even entertain it in the deepest recesses of his tired mind.

Discarding this dangerous and clearly insane path of thought, he makes quick work, with the help of one of his servants, of dressing appropriately for the tour of the city that is ahead of him. A rich brocade robe the colour of a forest stream accentuates his position as a monarch and brings out the ageless beauty he knows is his to display; yet unfit it is for the coolness of the kingdom inside the mountain, as the fabric is not thick enough to protect his body from the humidity and chill which are enough to cause discomfort to an Elf even as they seem to do nothing for Dwarves. He dons, after slow deliberation, an overcoat of woven silk embroidered with an elaborate leafy pattern with use of a mithril thread, gifted to him by the Lady of Lothlórien many decades before and worn only on the most regal of occasions for its awe-inducing opulence.

Let this be known to Thrór that Thranduil Oropherion, Elvenking of the Woodland Realm, is far from being easily impressed by riches of merely one city: inferior as he may be in the eyes of a Dwarf, he _is_ the superior of the two kings and he has no qualms about flaunting it in the face of his ally, even in a subtle display of wealth such as the choice of clothing.

 

3.

Despite his intention to remain stoically unimpressed by the tour in a chariot pulled by ponies through the inner city of Erebor, Thranduil cannot lie about his genuine awe at the incredible ways in which the Durin's Folk have had hard stone bend to their will and forced it to accommodate a city of a greatness that may surpass even the hidden kingdoms of the Elves back on the lost continent. He sees, during the many hours of the tour, a plumbing system so elaborately designed that it makes use of the natural hot springs flowing inside the mountain so that every housing establishment in the city has a pipe delivering hot water; he sees a temple carved in stone with a precision he has never seen before: sculpted on the surface, the Story of Creation can be viewed in most astonishing detail, set into the walls and floors and ceiling. He sees a marketplace overflowing with goods and he sees people purchasing luxurious items without worrying they might not be able to afford to feed their children.

Children, too, does he see: a sight that inexplicably pleases his soul. Children are scarce within his realm, rare between Elves due to their nature. Here, he can observe whole families (and he has learned, over the years he has lived, to distinguish a female Dwarf from a male without so much as a second thought) with little runts laughing, crying, throwing typical childish tantrums. Some stop by to watch the procession accompanying the King Under the Mountain and his mighty guest with gaping mouth and widened eyes. Some hide behind their parents' legs and peek out curiously.

This display of fertility among the people he used to think lesser than himself, the vitality that his own kin has lost to centuries of existence that requires no procreation to survive, strikes a chord within Thranduil. He makes a motion for the chariot to be stopped and he climbs out, much to King Thrór's surprise; but he takes no time to explain his actions and indeed acts instead. He approaches the family closest to their procession and kneels on one knee to reach near eye-level with their offspring: a small boy of rather prominent width.

'Good day,' he greets the child, allowing himself to smile in what he hopes is a friendly manner.

'Hi,' the little one replies, brave and happy. He might be eight years of age or not yet, but he looks up boldly at the Elvenking and doesn't hesitate, because in this mighty city he has not yet found cause for fear.

'My name is Thranduil. I would like to meet you. What is your name, little one?' Thranduil asks.

The child brightens visibly. 'Bombur!' He exclaims, excited at the idea that someone who rides with the King wants to know him by name.

'It's a pleasure, Master Bombur,' the Elvenking says, patting the boy on the head and ruffling his hair affectionately. ' _May you grow a fine warrior of your people_ ,' he wishes him very softly in Khuzdul, marvelling at how the child is beyond himself with happiness. He stands up and immediately hears the boy repeat to his parents exactly what the Elvenking told him; he nods in respect to the male he assumes is Bombur's father and earns an approving nod in return.

A longer stop is then forced upon the procession, because King Thrór is heartened by the display Thranduil inadvertently made of himself and insists that all children who will may gather close and hear the greeting from their new great ally, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm, their friend and protector. Despite the whole ordeal being rather embarrassing and certainly unrequited, Thranduil cannot find in himself a grudge to hold against the Dwarven King. He enjoys himself as the children ask him about his kingdom, about his people and their habit, and he even has a chance to teach them a customary greeting in Sindarin. Close to thirty youthful voices repeating the words in a jumbled noise that may pass for what it is intended to be – tear a joyful laugh out of him.

On the return journey, many hours later – after a mid-afternoon meal of fruit and nuts they are treated to in the House of Merchants - King Thrór confronts him about it.

'My kingdom rarely sees a birth these days,' Thranduil explains truthfully. 'Even in the best of times, the most peaceful, my kind are slow to bring new life to the world. There are but a handful of children in all of the Woodland Realm. Seeing so many young faces at once is... refreshing,' he says.

'It has been a pleasure to see a softer side to the renown Elvenking,' Thrór tells him with a friendly grin. Thranduil understands that, even though his actions were completely selfless and without double meaning, they still did wonders to improve his image in the eyes of his ally. An unintended political move, executed perfectly to earn him more favour with the King Under the Mountain.

He is pleased with it, but more so he is pleased with the experience it has been. He thinks with nostalgia of the years long gone by, when his son was still a toddler in need of his care; when young Tauriel, whom he has all but formally fostered and much later made his Captain of the Guard, was a wee lass of less than a decade, cheerful despite the loss of her parents and gracious as she sang with the voice of a song bird.

Being a parent, he thinks, is a blessing and a curse, especially to one gifted with life eternal: when time passes and children grow into their own people, when a parent slowly but surely loses the ability to guide them and help them make their choices, a bitterness creeps into the existence suddenly devoid of innocent laughter of youth. The desire to protect is seen as overbearing, the advice given is taken as insult: for when to a parent, the child is always the most precious being in the world, to others, the child is an adult yet and a child no longer. Still, fortunately, far off is the day when Legolas and even Tauriel will drift away from within his reach – for that, Thranduil is grateful. Loss has marked his life for long. He wishes not to face a time when he is alone on his throne in the halls of his kingdom and not a word nor a laugh comes his way from his own son and from the young woman he considers his daughter.

'Children are a gift rarely seen in the Dwarven kingdoms in the past as well, my friend,' says Thrór thoughtfully, stroking his beard as he talks. 'Since my ancestors were forced away from the greatest capital of our people, our numbers have dropped. Only now, again, does the birth rate rise, for here in this realm, we have found safety, peace and wealth that aid us in providing comfort for our families. We are a steady people. We like to know what we stand on before we wed.'

'In that, it would appear, we are similar indeed,' Thranduil concludes.

 

4.

The feast that evening is indeed a mighty one, doubly so because it serves a double purpose. Stories of the Elvenking's doings on today's tour are already circulating between the people gathered at the handsomely loaded tables, appreciative looks are sent his way: it seems as though he has gained quite a popularity with the folk that not so long as yesterday still thought with suspicion of Thranduil's mere presence in the halls of their beloved kingdom. He nods at many in a display of respect and acknowledgement, thinking it prudent to make smaller alliances with those who are in attendance to a feast thrown by the King: in the future, their say may influence decisions with bearing over both their realms. Additionally, the excellent wine served here especially for him, sweet and rich on his taste buds, serves to make Thranduil the spirit of companionship, cheerful against his earlier reservations when the Dwarven table manners are concerned.

Oh, of course the way beer or ale spill all over his fellow banqueters' beards and crumbs of food shoot from their mouths as they burst into noisy laughter at the most inappropriate jokes is still disgusting and he averts his eyes whenever he can get away with it; but there is a joy in him, and he doesn't mind terribly that the table manners of those who surround him are uncivilized. It is a time to put worries at rest and enjoy himself.

He finds that he doesn't even mind the presence of the young prince, who is seated directly on his right like he himself is seated on the King's right. Instead he observes and sees that the way Thorin consumes food is more refined, more deliberate than that of most of his kin, as though he, not unlike the Elves, takes care to taste each bite and appreciate the flavours as well as the blessing that comes from being able to find sustenance in the produce of the earth. For a reason Thranduil cannot guess without making assumptions, the prince avoids meat that is the usual preference for Dwarves: even out of respect for the Elvenking, they would not refrain from serving roasted and boiled and friend meats of different animals at the feast, although at least there is also an abundance of fruits, vegetables and nuts to appeal to an Elf's palate and Thranduil knows it is so that he never has to go hungry when as a guest of the King Under the Mountain.

Thorin does not observe him back tonight, but he is generally pleasant to him, if cool in demeanour. At a prompt from his grandfather, the prince tells of his activities today: sword fight training and lessons on calculus that he deems dull yet necessary. He listens to King Thrór's recap of the events of the tour and nods in appreciation of Thranduil's happening at the marketplace.

'A good case to the people to convince them this alliance is not harmful but, indeed, quite a welcome event,' he concludes. 'I applaud you, O Elvenking. Few would do what you have done.'

'I thank you, prince Thorin,' says Thranduil formally, 'but believe me when I say I had no politics in mind when I made to greet the children. My heart was simply overjoyed at the sight of such youth and innocence, and so I acted without thinking, likely putting a hitch in the plans your venerable grandfather the King had for our afternoon. Indeed, this was most indecent of me to do.'

'Yet noble,' Thorin argues, 'and simply – nice. I am gratified to hear the Elvenking is more than a figure of ice behind the stories of the old.'

'That reminds me,' Thrór speaks up, loud and jovial, easily heard over the chatter at the tables, 'Thorin, my lad, have you not prepared a song? It is, after all, the anniversary of your birth – sing for your guests! Play us your music!'

The prince nods and graces his grandfather with a smile that warms the heart of the Elvenking even though not intended for him. It sends a tendril of panic through him: how can a feeling such as this course through him from a mere expression on the prince's face, a simple smile, slightly crooked and rather cocky, pleasant enough on the Dwarf's most handsome features, but hardly beautiful enough to warrant violent reactions? He forces a peace of mind on himself, blames the spike of attraction on the wine and almost convinces himself that it is the real cause – until silence falls over the dining hall and in this silence, Thorin sits with a harp on a stone stool on what appears like a stage at the centre of the room - and begins to play.

He works the strings of his instrument masterfully, his fingers wander along the lengths and pluck gently to deliver a slow, peaceful melody. Already the music fills Thranduil's being, seduces him into closing his eyes and enjoying the soft vibrations of the air that carry the sound throughout the incredible acoustics of the hall – and then the prince opens his mouth and sings. His voice, rich and low when simply talking, is even more so in song. The words are in Khuzdul and Thranduil can only understand some of it, but he recognizes the story being told with each note and each stanza of beautifully strung together lyrics:

Thorin is singing of Beren and Luthién, of their eternal love that is more than a legend and so, so much more than a myth.

Even the thought of a Dwarf defacing the names of the two fated lovers of two races in such a display should enrage Thranduil, who has a fondness of this story within himself birthed from the deeply rooted longing for the times of old, for the kingdom of Doriath in which he spent his youngest years and for the beauty of the days when the stars shone more brightly on the night sky. Yet, he listens on and feels naught but awe, for Thorin's voice does the beauty of the story justice and his music is truthfully divine. There is no rage in him, no ire, and if anything, he thinks it only fitting that the prince tells a story that once united the Firstborn with the proud race of Men to his own people who may yet benefit from it.

He opens his eyes and drowns in the pools of bright blue that lock into him from across the room; and he realizes, belatedly, that the choice of the story is a tribute to his person: that the prince deliberately picked the tale of such a long-lost past, the tale that speaks of hope and unity and joy that may overcome all sorrows, for the Elvenking's enjoyment. A queer feeling fills his heart at this: a warmth that cannot be attributed to the wine no longer. He is elated, for he understands that the prince does not despise him, like he has earlier concluded, but respects him instead.

When the song is finished and the cheers erupt from the audience, Thranduil still finds himself trapped within Thorin's eyes. He forces himself to look away and perceives the other attendees of the feast instead, judges their reactions to the tale and is pleasantly surprised to see tears and joy and genuine emotion in all of the faces around him. The tale, he now knows, has reached many hearts.

'The stories of the Elves hold more merit than some think,' Thrór tells him softly. 'Thorin is quite a scholar of the history of your kin, my friend. Before, when we were yet undecided if we were to enter into an alliance with the Woodland Realm, he alone sang your praise and reminded me of your worth and honour. He recounted old battles and even older allegiances, he talked of the legends that were proof of your grace: truly, you have found a loyal friend indeed in my young grandson. He may not tell you directly, for it is in his nature to hide what he feels, but it is an honour to him to be able to sing to you on the anniversary of his birth.'

Thranduil remembers, then, the old tradition of the Durin's Folk that has their young compose a song a year: every four turns of seasons, on the day of their birth, a celebration is held and the youth are required to gift the guests with their song. It speaks of the hospitality and the love for cheer that characterises the proud race of Dwarves, and the Elvenking understands that King Thrór means to tell him he is a valued, welcome guest to the halls of Erebor now and forevermore.

 

5.

The day after the feast sees Thranduil sleeping late. The wine and exhaustion of the day before catch up to him and he only rises after six hours of undisturbed rest. His servant informs him that the sun is already high in the sky and the Dwarves are preparing for their afternoon meal, but he is not bothered by it: the pleasant dreams of the night put him in a good mood. He takes a bath that is longer than it needs to be for its simple joy, then dresses himself alone and brushes his hair. A messenger from King Thrór brings him an invitation to a small inspection visit in the mines later in the day, which Thranduil accepts out of politeness but also of curiosity: despite his long years of life, he has never seen a Dwarven mine up close and he will not pass up on beholding what is said to be a peak achievement of construction.

He joins the royal family for dinner and has the pleasure of meeting Thorin's younger siblings Frerin and Dís, mere toddlers still in comparison to their older brother who, as far as Thranduil remembers, is still yet a child in Dwarven terms despite his physical looks. Frerin is quiet and shy throughout the meal, not once does he dare speak up in the Elvenking's presence, but Dísis a joy to be close to: talkative and happy, she chatters and sings silly nursery rhymes, and generally makes the dinner a lively ordeal. At one moment, she even does an unthinkable thing: she climbs Thranduil's lap and seats herself there, treating the Elvenking as her personal armchair when she babbles away excitedly about a rabbit she was chasing for hours to no end that morning.

Thranduil, on his part, stills for only a moment, and then smiles gently at the little girl and strokes her head. He listens carefully to her tale and in turn tells her of a time when his son was as small as she is now and he got very scared of a fox that growled at him, before he learned that the fox was a mother simply protecting her young. Dís giggles at that, calls Legolas silly – Thranduil doesn't get mad on his son's behalf because he supposes the story itself is, indeed, quite silly – and asks him to braid her hair.

To this, Thorin intervenes. 'We are at the table, little one – we do not want to get hair into the Elvenking's food,' he admonishes. The girl nods her head and apologizes. Thranduil notes there is a strange expression on the prince's face for the rest of the dinner, but he has not a chance to ask about it nor does he remember it later.

The visit to the mines is everything Thranduil has hoped it would be and more. Not only does he finally have a chance to see the wondrous caverns drilled by generations of miners seeking for precious minerals and metals, which in itself would have been enough to make this day memorable; he is also greeted by a committee that then gifts him with a gem of the Mountain, clear and flawless like the surface of a lake on a windless day, colour the deepest shade of blue: a perfect sapphire. He looks to Thrór in question and the king seems pleased with this development, so Thranduil accepts the jewel with grace.

But it is not the end of his day. Later, when he is mindlessly wandering the halls of the king's home in admiration of the craftsmanship that created the stone ornaments and the wonderful frescos on the walls, he happens upon the prince, who comes from the opposite direction with a sheathed sword in his hand, dressed in simple clothing and drenched in sweat.

'Your Majesty,' Thorin acknowledges him. He looks unfairly attractive with his thick mane tied back in a loose ponytail and the light beige tunic clinging to his muscular body. Dark chest hair is visible in the low cut of the tunic, and Thranduil has a sudden urge to rub his cheek against it, which of course he suppresses instantly.

'My prince,' he greets softly, tearing his eyes away from the desirable sight the young prince makes. He is confused; the smell and sight of sweat should be unpleasant to him, but it is not, not on Thorin, and he thinks again that there must be a bewitchment of some sort that befell him when he first set his eyes on the Dwarven prince two days prior.

'Has your visit to the mines gone pleasantly?' Thorin asks, clearly more out of politeness than due to any real interest, for he is already looking away as though he cannot wait to leave.

'It was unexpectedly nice, thank you,' Thranduil replies simply. 'A gift I have not anticipated was given to me by the miners and I find myself rather happy with it. Yet I am not well-versed in the matter of precious minerals, and I do not know if the one I have been given can be set in a ring as I hope. Would you kindly lend me your eye and your opinion, my prince? I hear you are quite a jewel expert.'

The prince hesitates, then acquiesces and follows Thranduil back to his chambers so that the Elvenking can show him the crystal. The Elvenking has no ulterior motives, in fact the thought of this whole ordeal being entirely indecent only enters his head once the door closes behind them. Nobody of his own court is inside to act chaperone since he has given his servants and companions leave so that they, too, enjoy themselves in the vast and mighty Kingdom Under the Mountain; he wonders if that really matters. Were he or the prince female, certainly even the idea of them being alone together would be enough to cause a scandal. But they are both male and the notion of two males laying together is rarely heard of between Elves or Dwarves. Nobody would suspect, were they to...

His thoughts are taking silly routes yet again.

He finds the box that holds the crystal he has been gifted and passes it to Thorin, who respectfully does not venture deeper into the guest chambers and waits by the door: already so different from his first visit in this particular room. The prince takes the mineral out of its casing and holds it up to the lamp to examine it. His eyes betray interest which turns into awe as he finishes his inspection and returns the gem to the box.

'This is one of the most beautiful stones I have seen,' he says softly. 'If you please, raise it to the source of light to see how truly precious it is, O Elvenking,' he advises and so Thranduil lifts the oval stone to the candlelight and sees, on its surface, the shape of an eight-armed star.

'How is this possible?' He asks, bewildered and enchanted.

'We call these stones _star-sapphires_ and they are extremely rare,' the prince explains. 'The effect that causes it has to do with the components that make up the gem. Stones affected by this effect are called _asteria_ and make for wonderful jewellery. This is a fine gift you have been given, Your Majesty.'

Thranduil graces him with a smile. The prince responds with one of his own, crooked and genuine, and the Elvenking knows not what he is doing before he does it: he leans down and places a gentle kiss on Thorin's lips. When the prince does not back off and instead kisses back, chastely, almost innocently, so unlike their first kiss two nights ago, Thranduil sighs against him and lets his eyes slide closed. This, he thinks, is real bliss, a dream coming fulfilled.

They break off after all too short a moment and the Elvenking is pleased to discover a look of burning want on the young prince's face. Relieved that his desire is not unreturned, he smiles again and hands the box holding his precious gem to Thorin, then closes the Dwarf's thick fingers about it. He receives a yet wider smile as reward.

'I shall have it framed with the most delicate mithril wire to imitate the freshest tree branches of Spring,' the prince mutters, 'and set in a clasp that will adorn your finest clothing, O Elvenking. Every time you look at this stone, will you think of me? Will your eyes darken with want and will your loins be set aflame? Answer me sincerely if you dare,' he challenges, staring unabashedly at Thranduil's face.

'Your arrogance remains unsurpassed,' Thranduil replies, stroking the prince's well-defined jaw with his thumb.

'Is it still arrogance when I see your eyes follow me from the moment I step into the same room you are within?' Thorin asks, grasps Thranduil's hand in his and plants a kiss on each of his knuckles. 'Is it still arrogance when I can feel the hunger of your gaze?' He questions again, flipping the Elvenking's hand to lick at his wrist. It sends a shiver of unbridled desire down Thranduil's spine, but Thorin is not done with him yet. 'Is it still arrogance, O Elvenking, when your lust is so obvious to me?' He mouths at the spot where Thranduil's quickened pulse can be sensed most accurately. His beard tickles on the Elvenking's sensitive skin, scratches lightly and sets his need aflame.

It is unbecoming, for a king of his age and life experience to be so easily affected by such a simple caress. Thranduil feels shame flow onto his face in a flush. Oh, if only he could regain the control on his emotions that he has prided himself in for hundreds of years; if only he could stop the wretchedness of physicality spreading throughout his body from the point where Thorin touches him to his heart and to every single one of his limbs hence! He is humiliated of his own volition, he commits an act of sacrilege against the sanctity of a matrimonial union, a crime against the memory of his deceased beloved – but oh, how he craves the sensation of the young prince's mouth on him, how he wants to feel the muscled body against his own. It's madness, pure madness that threatens to consume him in a flood of dark desires.

'Be mine,' Thorin demands in a soft murmur on Thranduil's skin. 'Be mine, give yourself to me, become joined with me as one – and I shall give you the light of the stars itself in turn!'

'No,' Thranduil protests, a gasp is ripped from his throat when Thorin bites down on his pulse. 'Oh, my prince, I wish for nothing more but to say yes, yet I cannot,' he all but moans, regret lacing his voice as he retrieves his hand and takes a step back.

'Why?' The prince asks, visibly pained and confused at the rejection.

'My kind only ever loves once,' the Elvenking explains, averting his eyes. 'If it is a love you seek from me, I cannot offer it, for I have already loved and lost.'

Thorin makes a move as though to approach and grab him again, but pauses mid-step and lets his arms fall back. He shakes his head with a sigh: he is not subtle in his disappointment. The small box with the precious star-sapphire, he places in his pocket.

'You say so, and yet it is clearly a lie,' the prince accuses in a voice low, but resolved, 'and I will prove it to you, O Elvenking. I shall win your love as I have already won your desire. Should it take me years, decades, a century even, I will endure in my feelings for you.'

'This is but a folly of youth,' Thranduil tries to reason, but his heart clenches even as he becomes determined to wear a mask of indifference to hide the inner turmoil he is going through. 'You are but a child, young prince, even more so in the eyes of an Elf.'

'Yet my age does nothing to lessen your lust for my body,' Thorin argues. 'What are you so afraid of? You, the mighty king of Elves, you who have seen so many battles and survived. Is my love for you this terrifying?'

'It is not love,' Thranduil tells him sharply, 'but hero worship, so typical for one so young. My prince, I will have you leave now,' he says and the order in his words in thinly veiled.

Thorin opens the door, obedient to a degree. 'I shall take my leave of you now,' he agrees, 'but know this: I will not accept defeat.'

He leaves without waiting for an answer and Thranduil, emotionally drained, falls into bed and sleeps through most of the evening and night.

 

6.

The next day marks the end of Summer, which for the denizens of the Woodland Realm is a cause for celebration; his people have need for not much reason to celebrate indeed. Thranduil does not feel festive, however, for he is suffering of heartache and confusion mixed together into an emotional turmoil greater than anything in his long life. His soul longs for the sight of Thorin, for the sound of the prince's voice and for the touch of his hands. For the first time since she who was his beloved wife left this world, he does not miss her with all of his being: as though the piece of his soul that was torn from his body with her death has been replaced. The sheer thought of such an event occurring scares Thranduil to no end.

He tries to picture her face, so tender and cherished, and the image fades before he can conjure it up from memory, overwritten easily by the image of the young prince, blue eyes glimmering in the flickering candlelight as he declares his love for the Elvenking with all the certitude of his youth.

'Am I wretched beyond salvation?' Thranduil asks himself softly, mindless of the presence of the servants who are tending to him as he dresses for the day.

'My lord,' one addresses him: a friend of his son's, he thinks, one in a set of twins, but he cannot quite muster in himself the will to remember his name. 'A courier has brought this for you while you were yet asleep,' the servant says and offers him the familiar box: the one which contains the star-sapphire he gave Thorin the day before.

Thranduil opens it, brows knitted together in a mild frown, and to his eyes appears a perfectly crafted brooch the size of a fist, of the purest silver steel, with the sapphire encrusted elegantly in its centre. He can't help the gasp escaping his lips at the intricacy of the piece: the mithril wires that tangle together much like willow branches in Spring, the tiniest of leaves attached to the wires, with veins engraved on them to imitate nature, the vines that hold the stone in place.

'This is a most beautiful item, my lord,' the servant praises.

The Elvenking nods in agreement. He touches the brooch with one finger, careful as though he were afraid it might break. Then, he lifts it from the cover of the box.

'I shall use this as a clasp for my robes today,' he announces. The servant helps him arrange the jewellery so that it catches light and showcases the star on the surface of the gem from every angle. Indeed, the brooch is more exquisite than Thranduil has imagined it would be even with Thorin's promises and his own knowledge of the Dwarven craft. He wonders, however, if the prince had sacrificed his rest in order to create this wonderful piece for him and, were that the case, if he is expected to repay the debt in some most unbecoming way.

A flush of embarrassment finds its way to his face as he thinks of ways he could show gratitude for an extraordinary gift such as this. Fantasies flood his mind unbidden, images of the young prince sitting on the edge of a bed with his legs spread invitingly open, wickedly beckoning for Thranduil to crawl in between them, to reach inside his breeches, to put his mouth on him in a most shameful, yet erotic act. He feels himself growing harder and is thankful to whatever powers might watch over him that he is robed already, so that his arousal is concealed from view of his servants and he is spared the humiliation of being seen reacting in so depraved a manner to naught but dirty ideas floating around his head.

Why, why would he wish to engage in such a shameful practice with the Dwarven prince when the mere thought of it should be appalling to his every sense?

'Are you feeling well, my lord?' The same servant who has brought him the gift from Thorin inquires. 'You have become rather flushed.'

'It is nothing,' Thranduil says, straining to keep his calm. 'Let us proceed. King Thrór must be awaiting us.'

And so another day of the delegation to Erebor unfolds.

 

7.

The King Under the Mountain has them attend a musical competition on the premise that prince Thorin himself is one of the contestants. Guilty as he feels of the feeling, Thranduil cannot help but anticipate the prince's performance after the one he has already seen on the feast. Inexplicably, he is sat not along with Thrór, but with his two smaller grandchildren, as well as other little Dwarflings instead. He recognizes Bombur, the boy he has met during the tour of the city, as one of the children he is accompanied by; instantly, he understands the gesture Thrór is meaning to display: surrounding the Elvenking with the youngest offspring of his people, the king is showing a measure of trust and good will towards his ally, as well as offering him a chance to spend the time even more enjoyably. It is a most welcome distraction from darker, more convoluted thoughts and Thranduil accepts his role as a child carer for the duration of the competition readily.

Little Dís once again uses his lap as a seat for herself, but this time she does not ask for her hair to be touched. She is waiting, quite excitedly if thankfully silently, for her eldest brother's performance, which is scheduled for much later in the day. In the meantime, they watch various singers, some with skill and some without much, and Thranduil is amazed at how the audience rewards even the most off-tune performers with applause and cheerfulness. It appears that to Dwarves, the quality of song is less important than the feeling behind it; he finds it understandable and worthy of praise. Once more, he marvels at the similarities between the Durin's Folk and his kin: the love of music flows in both their veins and fills both their hearts.

'Will you sing for us, Your Majesty?' Bombur asks bluntly while there seems to be a break in the competition and no new contestants come up on stage.

'You should definitely sing for us!' A slightly older boy whose name Thranduil hasn't been told catches on.

'Oh please, please sing!' Dís begs in a cutesy voice that probably works on all the adults she ever tries it on, for she is definitely spoiled a lot, especially by her doting grandfather.

Yet, the Elvenking still hesitates. Singing is an activity he has long since forsaken. In his youth, he used to indulge in music-making, even though among his kin, his voice was not particularly remarkable. Still, his song was passable and so he enjoyed the nights of poetry and wine, of laughter and dance under the radiant starlight. But darker times have come and the wounds in his heart festered and rotted, poisoning all that has once brought him joy: Thranduil has not been able to sing in many decades, even for his most precious son and the daughter he fostered. His voice from that time is lost. He doesn't know if he can find it.

The children are very persistent and unexpectedly convincing, however, in their relentless requests for a single song from the Elvenking. Thranduil eventually agrees, hesitant and uncertain as he rarely is; he does refuse to take the stage and enter the competition, though. He remains seated in the lodge, Dís seated comfortably in his lap, as he thinks of a melody appropriate for the occasion – does he even know any? - and finally sings, closing his eyes as he remembers the words in Sindarin.

 

_O Starlight in the corner of the eye_

_of a lover long-lost, a spouse long-mourned_

_O brightest of stars on the night sky_

_Lead the way, lead me home_

_O Starlight in the dark night_

_beacon of hope for wandering souls_

_As seasons turn and change, forgive me_

_the memory of love is gone_

_\- in the first of Winter's snows_

_I seek thy council, O eternal light_

_O Starlight in the darkness_

_Lead the way, lead me home_

 

The children don't understand the lyrics, obviously, but Thranduil thinks some things, some feelings, must translate universally, because as soon as his voice dies out in the absolute silence of the hall – he wasn't aware that he had such a big audience or he would not have sung – he feels Dís clutch his hand in hers. Bombur and some of the other young ones are sniffling quietly, moved inexplicably by the melancholy of the song, and Thranduil regrets his choice of performance: instead of entertaining his little friends, he has made them cry. Fortunately, at least the adults no longer pay them much attention: after a brief round of applause, they return to their interrupted conversations.

'Are all Elven songs so sad?' Asks prince Frerin, Thorin's fair-haired younger brother.

'Many are,' Thranduil admits, 'and most of those that I remember. My kind lives long, my prince, and with long life longing and sadness come as surely as wisdom and peace.'

The boy nods in understanding, but a frown still remains on his completely smooth face. When the Elvenking asks about it, Frerin hesitates a moment before replying, 'I don't get what Thorin sees in Elves.'

'You're so rude!' Dís exclaims in accusation and then giggles. Her entire small form shakes with helpless hiccups of laughter and, to his own astonishment, the Elvenking finds himself following in the little girl's mirth. This, in turn, seems to affect the rest of the children as well – and soon the whole group of them laughs heartily, the sadness of Thranduil's song already forgotten.

Refreshments and snacks are served before the competition picks up again. The children are easily appeased with the dried fruit: soft peaches and crunchy plums, the sweetness in both the result of and unusually sunny, storm-free Summer this year. They feed their favourite snacks to Thranduil as though to earn his favour; and the Elvenking accepts the treats: pieces of nuts and pastries from the children who are so eager to have him taste flavours Elves are not generally accustomed to. Even Frerin, who might not be overly impressed with Thranduil's kind, makes a show of his genuine affection for the Elvenking himself by offering him excellent almond cookies.

'Dís is not very fond of them,' he tells Thranduil in a whisper, leaning close as though to share a most protected secret, 'but me and Thorin, we really really like them. Mother doesn't let us have more than three a week, though, because once when Thorin was very small, he ate thirty-four cookies at once and got sick.'

Thranduil smiles, both amused at the story and warmed by the adorable image in his head of a small prince Thorin stealing and devouring a whole batch of cookies from his mother's kitchen. Pleased to be the one to get the Elvenking to display positive emotion, Frerin puffs out his chest in pride. He looks nothing like his brother; apart from the obvious dissimilarities caused by the age difference, Thranduil notes how the younger prince is of frail build, like a scholar rather than a warrior, but he has inherited his grandfather's strong nose and his father's stormy grey eyes, so much unlike Thorin's clear blue.

In the eyes of his kin, Frerin will without doubt grow to be just as handsome as his brother. To Thranduil, he will never compare, because his shameful physical attraction towards Thorin is contained to the older prince alone. It's a little as though the entire world shrinks to only the immediate area where the two of them exist at the same time: the Elvenking is hardly able to explain it even to himself without acknowledging that lust for Thorin's body is accompanied by a stronger feeling in his heart.

He knows it cannot possibly be love.

Yet his heartbeat quickens and his face reddens when finally, it is the prince's turn to compete in the contest. He can see the exact moment when Thorin notices him in the audience from the softening of his features as the young prince catches the sight of the brooch Thranduil is wearing. He looks good today as well, dressed to impress in blues that bring out his eyes in the most flattering way. Yet his appearance soon becomes a matter of no importance when the prince settles down with his harp and sings.

The ballad he intones is in Khuzdul, and the melody is most alarming – as though it speaks of sickness or madness; Thranduil is loathe to discover that he can only understand single words from the lyrics, words such as _war_ , _battle cry_ , _victory_ , _defeat_ and _wandering_ , and he is deeply bothered by the feeling of fear and sadness that threaten to overflow in his heart as the harp music and Thorin's low voice entwine in harmony to paint a lament for the death of something precious. He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until little Dís pats him on the forearm encouragingly.

He doesn't realize he is crying until the end of the song, when unwelcome tears roll down his face before he can stop them.

 

8.

When the night approaches, Thranduil heads out to watch the stars; he has been cooped up under the mountain for far too long already and the tranquillity of the chilly night is what he needs in order to regain some peace. He wanders out by himself, without telling anyone, and he even sneaks out without the guards at the gates noticing his departure. He enjoys his stay in the kingdom of Thrór, but he is, after all, the king of the woods – and he misses his forest. Here, at the foot of the mountain, even the skyline is different.

There is nowhere to go, really, at night; he could head towards Dale, but there is nothing he wants with the city, especially not at this hour. It is also too far to head towards the vast expanses of the Greenwood the Great; morning would greet him at the edge of the woods. In the end, the Elvenking chooses to climb the hills overlooking the wide road leading from Dale to Erebor. Once at the top of the highest of them, he decides to lay down on the yellowing grass, hardly mindful of the dirt and sand on his robes: from here, he can see the star-filled sky as though he were high up in the air. The only limitation is the peak of the Lonely Mountain he can see out of the corner of his eye; all around him, all above, the sky is black as the finest ink, dotted with white crystals filled with light.

He thinks, under the stars, of Thorin's song and of Thorin's eyes, of the concern and emotion in the prince's warm gaze when he saw Thranduil in tears. It's impossible to forget that kind of look, impossible to disregard it as something irrelevant just because Thorin is still very young; he unclasps the brooch holding his robe together and lifts it up closer to his face to inspect it again in the gentle light of the stars.

The sapphire glimmers, the star on its surface mirroring the night sky. It reminds Thranduil, for some reason he cannot fathom, of the Nauglamír, the peak of Dwarven craftsmanship, a picture of perfect beauty with the Silmaril set in its centre: what was supposed to be the symbol of an eternal union between two races as different as night and day, but what ultimately became the root of an enmity that even now has not begun to fade.

Dwarves are all so difficult to like. As a race, they tend to prove all the unfavourable opinions on them right: for they are a folk driven by greed and stubbornness, often ill-tempered and crude, unwilling to compromise – and eager to trade insults. Yet, Thranduil has been making an effort and in it, he found the negative characteristics are balanced if not outweighed by the positives: loyalty and honour, strong sense of justice and impeccable moral code, love of family and love of friends, and finally the same emotionality which drives their tempers, but which drives also their passions and bravery. Oh, he has indeed learned so much about Durin's Folk in just the days he has spent in their midst as their guest. He knows now the sins of their forefathers cast naught a shadow on the lives led in the present. Dwarves are so difficult to like: but Thranduil counts them among friends.

It is morning when he returns to his chambers; he slips in just like he sneaked out with nobody being none the wiser – but as he enters his room he realizes his absence has not gone unnoticed. The pillowed chair is occupied by Thorin, deeply asleep with his head resting on his arms folded on the table. Thranduil imagines the position on the chair cannot be comfortable. Upon awakening, the strain on his spine will catch up to the prince and cause him pain.

Yet, even aware of this, Thranduil cannot bring himself to wake him up and chooses to watch him sleep instead. The view pleases him. Thorin is so peaceful like this, his cocky smirk is nowhere in sight; his back rises and falls steadily as he breathes through his mouth and he snores softly. There are no wrinkles yet on the young face, no cares to have marred the beautiful features with lines. It will change, time will change it; time will put lines and wrinkles on Thorin's face and white strands in his black hair, time will steal his youth, his health and finally his life – and will not stop, will not pause in its ruthless chase forward until Thranduil is left all alone in the world where prince Thorin of Erebor – Thorin II, King Under the Mountain - is but a memory.

'I cannot love you,' the Elvenking whispers to the sleeping Dwarf. For the first time in decades, he feels the weight of the years upon his shoulders, heavy and frightening, because he has seen far too much and lived for far too long. It's not been a burden before, this immortality that signifies his belonging to the race of the Firstborn; with pride has he carried it over the centuries, committing to his memories every bit of history he witnessed and finding lesson in it for his people. Yet when he looks at the young prince, who too soon will be robbed of his life by a force unstoppable, by his nature of a being that will come to an end eventually – he curses who he is and who he will remain to be until all trees wither and the world sinks again into the sea as the new Song of Creation turns all he knows into something he does not.

In that one moment, the moment of truth in the first morning of Autumn, Thranduil craves the choice of mortality that will never be given to him. Prince Thorin sleeps, undisturbed, doesn't stir in his dreams – young, beautiful, peaceful – but the Elvenking already laments his inevitable loss; for he doesn't know why, and he doesn't know how, but his heart has betrayed him and his soul followed: even though it should not be possible, even if it should not happen, he loves again.

 


	2. Dark (What would you see)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Thorin visits the Woodland Realm. This will have consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize this took me so long to update. The chapter actually ends sooner than I intended, but I will go crazy if I have to write another word for it. Or if I have to revise it one more time.  
> This is so not my time for writing.

1.

Out of all light in the world, Thranduil and his people love the pure light of the stars the most. Distant but eternal, the stars adorning the night sky have been faithful guardians of the Woodland Realm since its birth – and as such are they celebrated. Each turn of seasons has its own festivity in honour of the constellations, each constellation has a time devoted just to its worship – but none of those can be compared to the famous Feast of Starlight; the most exquisite of all stars, Eärendil carrying the Silmaril on board of his mighty ship, appears on this part of the sky for three nights in a row every late Autumn, bright and clear, and so for those three nights, the Elves of the Woodland Realm celebrate with cheer and song. The guarding light sends its blessings to all who wander and all who are lost, and everyone is welcome to the celebrations and to the Realm itself as the stars shine upon them and lead the way.

Yet, inviting the young prince of the Lonely Mountain to accompany the Elvenking during the year's nightly festivities – along with his siblings and the other Dwarven children whose families would stand to be parted from them for so long – might have been a mistake on Thranduil's part. After but a fortnight of not seeing him, Thranduil deems Thorin all the more beautiful upon meeting him again. Little did he change: his beard may have thickened, his hair may have lengthened; but his steely blue eyes sparkle with a glint of joy and mischief as he greets the Elvenking and his court in a purposefully mangled Sindarin expression with an accent horribly exaggerated and very obviously fake. The smirk is still there as well when the prince takes in the carefully blank faces of the Elven dignitaries standing behind Thranduil; he's much too amused at the way some have not managed to hide their disdain in time.

Quite nonsensically, Thranduil finds himself wanting to kiss that smirk off of the prince's face. The urge to just lean down, capture those lips with his own, lay his claim on Thorin in front of everyone as though he has every right to do so – is almost overwhelming, but the Elvenking is proud and strong-willed. He prevails. He will not allow such barbaric desires to govern his actions.

He extends his own greetings instead, but is merciful enough to be swift about it when he notices the weariness on the children's faces.

'The best chambers have been prepared to house my estimable guests,' he announces, 'but I will wager a guess that food must sound more interesting after the long journey than bedding arrangements. Let us dine while the sun is still up. You will need your strength for the activities of tonight.'

He pretends to miss the smirk on Thorin's face widening at the unintended double meaning behind his words. The Dwarf is so smug and pleased with himself. It's wholly improper, but Thranduil is rather obviously distracted. He just hopes nobody notices – wouldn't it be scandalous, to be discovered harbouring an indecent affection towards a Dwarven prince that has not even yet reached the age of maturity; oh, he cannot imagine the shame and embarrassment of such a situation. Even Thrór, for all of his friendliness for Elves, would not bear the perceived humiliation of having his grandson being lusted after by another male.

There is dread in him for a moment when the whole Dwarven party with Thorin as their lead sits down at the table to feast on their dinner – Thranduil remembers well the manners shown by the adult Dwarves of Erebor during meals – but his fear is entirely unfounded. It seems that the children have been taught more tact and restraint than is typical for Dwarven halls. Apparently, there is some diplomacy in the whole of Durin's Folk after all.

Thorin catches his look of relief and grins at him.

'When you extended your invitation,' he explains as he reaches for one of the bowls of dried fruit, 'I convinced my grandfather that just as you courteously adhered to our traditions as our guest, so should we, as yours, honour the ways of Elves of the Woodland Realm. Teaching the kids to eat was my task. I hope you appreciate it, because believe me, it _was_ difficult.'

Thranduil laughs, much to the astonishment of his court who, in the many years they have accompanied him, have seen neither his merriment nor his mirth. Égon looks away as though he thinks he is witnessing something too wondrous to keep his eyes on, Merilhel smiles a little bit behind her hands, the twins Hithion and Hithien stare without remorse. The Elvenking is not even bothered by their reactions. These are the youngest of his court, chosen specially to serve during this year's festivities because of their child company. It is understandable that the experience of their older kin who have been with Thranduil for decades if not centuries is much more vast, but these four will learn.

For now, he allows them to draw entertainment out of his unusual cheer.

'Bombur, I believe, has decided on a path for his future,' Thorin says, attempting to keep the conversation as is customary for Dwarves during more official meals. The custom fits well with the nature of feasts of Elves, who appreciate the company as much as, if not more than, good food.

'Is that not too young?' Thranduil asks, directing the question to the boy sitting to Thorin's left.

Bombur grins. He has spinach between his teeth. It's a little bit disgusting, but also amusing. 'Your Highness, we have final choice of our occupations when we reach twelve years of age. Since then, we prepare towards that chosen goal.'

'I did not know that,' the Elvenking admits, then inclines with his head for Bombur to share.

'My parents do not know yet, but they will be happy,' the boy confesses, 'for I have decided to follow in my mother's footsteps and become the Master Cook in the royal kitchens.'

'That is very noble indeed,' Thranduil commands him. 'May you be persistent in this goal, my young friend. Preparation of food is a challenging task, I have been informed.'

'Thorin is to be a jeweller,' Dís announces with a happy smile, 'and Frerin learns to be a carpenter. I wonder what I shall choose,' she juts out her lower lip as she ponders the thought in her head.

Thorin laughs. 'There are still a few years left for you to choose,' he says to his sister. He turns to look back at the Elvenking, at the brooch with a star-sapphire that holds his robes, to offer him a charming smile that's only slightly crooked. It holds no meaning, no purpose – he is simply smiling at Thranduil because he can, because where he comes from, smiles carry no double meaning and are offered as a sign of friendship.

The world of Dwarves is so much simpler, it seems, than the world of Elves could aspire to be. Even in the Woodland Realm, being as close to nature as any living creatures can possibly get, Thranduil feels bound by expectations and standards he has helped set himself. There are things he cannot do; traditions he has to abide by. There are so many limitations that he cannot simply discard because of who he is and who he always has been. He envies Thorin, but more than that, he is happy that the young prince does not have to live under the restrictions of belonging to a race that has been unchanging for thousands of years. Mortality, he supposes, is really a gift, although he would not give away his own long life in exchange for the blessing of a peaceful death.

'I did not know you were formally taught to be a jeweller,' he says later, when the children have been taken to their rooms to bathe and rest before the night's festivities.

Thorin smiles. He doesn't immediately reply, but when he does, it's in a teasing tone. 'You never asked,' he says simply. When the silence stretches, he chuckles in mirth. 'I bet you thought every Dwarf knows how to work with gemstones and metals. I bet you thought I could do it simply because my people are said to be goldsmiths. O Elvenking, you assume so much and in your arrogance, you never consider you might be missing out on new knowledge.'

'For many centuries, the affairs and skills of Dwarves held no interest to me,' Thranduil admits. 'Now, it proves difficult to learn all about your culture in such a short span of time.'

'What changed your mind? The Arkenstone?' Thorin asks, genuinely curious now. It's visible in the way his eyes widen slightly and his whole posture is more alert.

'It was only a small part of what influenced my decision to pay tribute to your grandfather,' the Elvenking confesses. 'Indeed, the King's Jewel is the most unusual treasure I have seen in this Age – but in reality, I have lived long enough in this world to have seen the jewels made with pure light and no others can dim their memory. No, young prince. I have come to your grandfather, seeking treaties and friendship, because the time is right for both our peoples to come together. Too long have we been separated by petty grievances. Only together can we be strong enough, prepared enough... for when the darkness returns again.'

'You speak of the shadows. You speak of that of which reports tell: the shadows are getting deeper in Dol Guldur,' Thorin guesses. A frown adorns his face. 'Oh, but I heard of the horrors of that place. If the dark is back, we need to act swiftly. Destroy it before it grows in power.'

Thranduil shakes his head, allows mirthless laughter to pass his lips. The Dwarves, he reminds himself, are ill-tempered and hasty, quick to act but slow to think. Exceptional as he is, the young prince has not escaped those short-comings of his people.

'It is unreasonable to attack when there is nothing yet that can be attacked,' the Elvenking explains. He arises from the table and waits for Thorin to do the same. 'I will escort you to the chambers prepared for you,' he offers magnanimously.

Thorin nods his head and follows him out of the hall.

 

2.

In hindsight, Thranduil thinks it has not been a good idea to remain alone with the Dwarven prince for too long, especially knowing of Thorin's affections for him – and of his own for Thorin. All it took was a single not-particularly-appropriate comment from his side, pertaining to the prince's muscular build, to set events in motion.

'What did you mean by that, O Elvenking?' Asks Thorin, smirking like the impertinent princeling that he is. The door is unlocked, Thranduil is aware, and so anyone could walk in on the compromising position they now present – the king of the Woodland Realm sprawled ungracefully on the stone floor of the royal bathroom and the Dwarven prince sat atop of his chest with an expression of self-satisfaction on his face.

'Get off me, you uncivilized beast, I meant nothing by that!' Thranduil snaps, attempting to push the prince away by the shoulders. Thorin, however, is cunning; he catches both his arms in one hand and pins them above the Elvenking's head. Holding him in this vulnerable way, he leans down so that Thranduil can feel the prince's breath on his face. It's warm and slightly too fast, just like his heartbeat is too fast now, and oh, his lips feel so soft on Thranduil's own when Thorin finally closes the distance between them; but the kiss is not chaste, and soon Thorin's tongue invades Thranduil's mouth, explores. There's nothing innocent in the way the young prince kisses him, nothing child-like. His free hand starts to wander, first cupping the Elvenking's cheek, but soon it follows the line of his jaw, goes down his neck and reaches the star-sapphire brooch. Thorin unclasps it like an expert and parts Thranduil's robes without a trace of hesitation. The feeling of his rough, warm fingers on the smooth skin of his chest makes Thranduil arch into the touch. He knows he should be breaking away, he knows this is completely wrong, he knows – but he cannot help himself, it feels too good, it's everything he wants. His mind is clouded from the physicality of the Dwarf's actions. He makes sounds, embarrassing sounds unfit for a king, but they are muffled by Thorin's mouth on his and it only makes this worse; he's being consumed by a _want_ that is so ultimately foreign to him.

'No, no, stop,' he begs when Thorin breaks the kiss to move his lips lower, to suck on Thranduil's neck, to leave a mark of possession that will eventually be seen by someone.

'You don't want me to stop,' the prince murmurs. His beard scratches on Thranduil's skin when he speaks, but it's not unpleasant. The Elvenking shivers at the heat in Thorin's voice. He is burning.

'It doesn't matter what I want,' he says even so, because they cannot do this, must not.

'I would give you the world,' Thorin whispers in his ear, licks at its tip – and then retreats, slowly gets up to his feet, takes a few steps back, leaving Thranduil confused, wanting and still spread down on the floor.

He's not sure if the prince's insolence should enrage or amuse him and that in itself makes it more difficult. Here in his home, he was so sure to be safe from the mostly-unwanted advances from Thorin that now when they come, he is not prepared to react. What he is even less prepared for is his own urge to set aside all reservations and simply let the prince have his way, allow for both their desires to be fulfilled, but it is unthinkable: for the Elvenking to lay with a Dwarf, a male Dwarf, and for him to wish it with every bit of his being.

'I have no need for your world,' Thranduil lies and sits up, assuming all his grace and calm about him even as his soul is a-shiver inside. 'Leave me be. Your untoward feelings are unwelcome and offensive. I will take insult if you do not cease such actions against my person.'

Thorin, instead of heeding his words, just laughs. It's a rich and mirthful sound, carefree and filled with the youth of the prince's years; and it awakens in Thranduil a craving for that same easy freedom of expression that he knows is lost to him since the day his wife became lost to him forever. He loves fully and unconditionally when the prince's laugh reverberates within the stone and earth walls, he loves with a deep awareness of the promise eternity that shall never bless the union of their souls; and it is a cruel love, a painful love, because Thranduil has lived so long, the oncoming days of Thorin's life already feel too short and the moment of loss already feels too close.

The door opens without a knock to alert them of the presence of another. The Elvenking, sat upon the floor with his robes and hair and his heart a mess, looks up at the intruder and with a smile beholds the arrival of his son. Legolas does not, however, seem to share his sentiment, for a frown adorns his face as he witnesses the scenes in front of his eyes.

'The festivities are soon to begin,' Legolas says, uncertain as he is, unsure of his welcome. He's alert and suspicious, and it is with such emotion in his eyes that he glances at Thorin.

The young prince either notices nothing, or does not much care for the worry with which he is observed by an Elf unfamiliar to him; Thranduil sees him smile and nod in a respectful greeting at Legolas, and he feels pride in his heart because even if Thorin is thoroughly savage in the ways of interaction with him, to others he is as perfect a picture of good manners as a Dwarf could be.

Even Legolas must see this, for his expression softens and he acknowledges the greeting with a nod of his own, graceful in the way his head dips at just the right angle to show his esteem of another prince and yet not to appear either condescending or obsequious: neither would match his position. Tension leaves the posture of the Elven prince when he looks back at his father. Thranduil allows himself to smile at his son, just slightly, just enough – and then he remembers he's still on the floor, in a highly inappropriate state of undress with the robes slipping from his shoulders now that the clasp is missing. Were he younger, less well-versed in the ways of life, he surely would have blushed. He does not, but it is with a general sense of embarrassment that he rises to his feet and fixes his clothing.

Thorin does not even attempt to look inconspicuous as he returns to him the star-sapphire brooch.

'I told you fixing wire so that they held the gem more securely would take me less than a while,' he lies smoothly, handing the costly trinket to the Elvenking, 'and so it is done. Next time, O Elvenking, please consider the notion of putting more trust in a jewellers craftsmanship. I shall prefer not to take your possessions from you by force just in order to mend them.'

There is a certain kind of mischief in his eyes as he says this, as though he knows these words are sure to scandalize Legolas, yet Thorin does not let any of that mischief affect his tone: he sounds like he should, like he has naught but regard and awe for the Elvenking and certainly not the desire to push Thranduil back down to the floor and have his wicked share of carnal pleasures with him. A liar he is, a trickster with a face of innocence. His own is the ability to disguise what he feels under the mask of what he knows needs to be shown: like a true politician, he manipulates with everything that he is.

One day, he shall be a formidable king.

 

3.

They leave the Dwarven prince alone in his chambers for the time remaining before the festivities truly begin. Legolas follows Thranduil into his father's bed chamber and assists in the preparations; the Elvenking prefers to appear to his people a vision of pale and ethereal perfection, distant as the stars they shall praise together, yet still unmistakably one of their own: their chosen and beloved King and protector. Oh, the robes he has in possession which he dons only for the most significant of occasions: how magnificently will the tightly woven white silk reflect the night lights; how the embroidery in silver thread, scarce on the entirety of the fabric but thick at the edges of the sleeves, will look even richer in the dark of the woods illuminated by naught but the light of Eärendil. Legolas helps him dress, picks the clasp for the robes and then replaces it with the star-sapphire one without questioning it at all; this, more than anything else, tells Thranduil that he has been found out.

'Strange is the way the Dwarf looks at you,' Legolas explains softly, weaving white and silver moonflowers – the kind which only grows in the realm when the light of Eärendil approaches the skyline – into the Elvenking's hair in the way of a crown. 'You are like treasure in his eyes. Please be careful, my king, lest he become too greedy like those of his line that came before his time.'

'You presume to instruct me as though I were an Elfling,' Thranduil notes with amusement. 'Oh, my son, how mistaken you are in your assessment of Thorin's character.'

'I will stand to be enlightened, _ada_ ,' Legolas says. His fingers are nimble and make a swift job of adorning his father's head with the bloom of Autumn. He does not pause, not even when the silence stretches – but yet he startles and crushes one of the flowers' petals and observes the ruined blossom fall to the marble floor when Thranduil does speak up eventually.

'The young prince is what many of his kin are not: solemn and well-mannered, honest and curious. He is well-versed in the ways of the Elves of old, as though the history of our ancestors were a personal fascination for him. You see all of Durin's Folk as savages that could not be redeemed, as I had once taught you: yet, Legolas, you should know that I was mistaken,' the Elvenking says and admits to being wrong, a feat he rarely does.

'That prince's eyes follow you intently whenever he is close,' Legolas notes.

'Yes,' Thranduil replies, because denying it would be futile. 'He fancies himself in love with me, the fool. Too young to tell admiration of a foreign creature or maybe worship of an idealized hero from genuine feelings. Thorin is but a child.'

This makes Legolas pause in his ministrations. His eyes, Thranduil observes in the mirror, are drawn to the star-sapphire brooch reflected in the smooth silvery surface. Whatever conclusions he makes, he does not share, but the Elvenking fears that his son might suspect the truth. Would disgust for his father shake Legolas' slim frame if he found out Thranduil desires and loves a young Dwarven prince, or would he come to accept it as he seems to accept most of the Elvenking's oddities? Would he cry out in outrage or would he laugh in joy? Oh, how Thranduil dreads that the day will come when these questions get answered.

'He watches you,' Legolas says in a voice barely above a whisper as he resumes his task, 'like you are the brightest star on his sky. If that is so, if he is capable of being awed by the starlight within your form, maybe you are correct, _ada_ – maybe those of Durin's Folk are not the savages the stories of my childhood paint them to be.'

And Thranduil is filled with such overwhelming love and pride of his son, he turns to face him and touches his face in a gesture of parental adoration. Legolas smiles at him, returns the gesture and adjusts a moonflower in the Elvenking's hair. The tender moment is soon over, however, for they must rush now: precious moments are left before the festivities are due to begin and without the King's presence to oversee the start, they cannot begin at all.

Legolas finishes swiftly with his task, looks the crown over with a critical eye and deems it acceptable. The star-sapphire brooch that stands out vibrantly against Thranduil's white robes, he does not comment on, although there is a tiny hint of disapproval in his face at the statement it just might make, or maybe at the memory of the young Dwarf so indecently taking and then returning the jewel to the Elvenking. There is much to be said about the protective side of Legolas who acts as though his father requires care-taking, like a baby or a maiden whose honour might be sullied with just an inappropriate look or an indecent touch.

Thranduil is not so easily tarnished.

They leave the Elvenking's chambers and collect the young servants who will attend to Thranduil during the procession and the festivities: Égon, the twins Hithion and Hithiel and Merilhel, sister of Galion. The Dwarven children are already with the Elves, chattering excitedly until the Elvenking's arrival enforces a sudden reverent silence.

Thorin, dressed in an almost-Elven fashion, appears shy for the first time in his appreciation of Thranduil's image. Far too soon, he averts his gaze, as though the beauty he beholds is too sacred, too much for his eyes to bear. The Elvenking wants nothing more but to walk to him and share the moonflowers making his crown – to braid them into Thorin's raven-black hair. The stars, he feels, would forgive him this sinful love: the guardians of destiny that they are, the stars of old would not begrudge him the feeling he was gifted with after he never asked for it.

'Let us proceed,' he says when all gather. The procession moves: from the underground kingdom out into the woods, the Elves of the Woodland Realm follow their king in a merry march. Even though Thranduil at the front is silent, music and song already fills the air and the hearts of the merrymakers. To Thranduil's right, Legolas smiles; he's very young still, very excited over the Feast of Starlight – no matter how many turns of season he's seen, he forever cherishes each and every single moment the beauty of the world can be beheld by those who wish to look.

_Oh, how joyful is this day and age_ , Thranduil thinks fleetingly, _for now the dark is no more and the cheer is in abundance._

There is a clearing in the Woodland Realm, the one place from where the night sky is seen without anything to obstruct the view. That place, Thranduil's people like to call _Eärendil's Ship_ , and so the name is as ridiculous as it is fitting. On silent nights, it is where the Elvenking likes to come alone, lay down in the grass and pretend that there is nothing between him and the starlight above. On this night, it is where the procession is headed. Tables rich in foods and beverages await them, tended to by those who already arrived. Lanterns burn in flickering rows among the trees, guiding the way to any lost wanderers. A throne of tree branches and soft leaves has been erected at the top, overlooking the whole clearing.

Thranduil takes his seat on the throne and watches as the procession breaks up into smaller groups who chatter, laugh and sing together. Even before the wine is served, cheer is spreading over his people as the night slowly falls.

'This year, my king, three couples wish to be wed in the moment when Eärendil first appears on the sky,' Hithion informs Thranduil in a whisper. The Elvenking nods in acknowledgement: he can already see the six young people gathering in front of his throne, three maidens and three boys, all of them nervous and giddy with excitement. He spares a smile for them. One of the maidens dares to return the smile and he almost commands her for the bravery. In his mind, he does. In words, he does not.

All voices die off and all music fades. Anxious anticipation spreads and reaches even the hearts of the Dwarven children. The night falls and the brightest of stars enters the firmament.

Thranduil stands.

'In the days of old, all would gather to witness the light of Valinor, embedded forever in the brightest crystals called the _Silmarils_. In the days of old, not many could witness this honour. But a wanderer among our people and his beloved brought the light of Valinor to the sky in a mighty ship, so that forevermore our paths would be shone upon and so that none shall ever be lost in the night. May the star of Eärendil always guard our ways,' he speaks in the absolute silence. 'May the star of Eärendil forever stand guard to the unions we all hold witness to on this day: the union of Iardaer and Amareth. The union of Silevion and Tewil. The union of Daerven and Beldis. Rise! May the unions forged on this day for eternity be embedded in the hull of the mighty ship of Eärendil so that no evil can harm them and no calamity can wring them apart. Rejoice!'

And as the three couples join in marriage and he bears witness to it, Thranduil notices Thorin looking at him with something in his eyes that makes him tear up. Oh, how he wishes he could take the young prince of Erebor in his arms and swear an oath of love to him with the stars as witness and the light of forever guarding their union until the end of time! But alas, this is not to be. As surely as the night will end and the day will come, eventually, Thorin will grow old and bored of him, and when his life reaches its natural end, he will die alongside a wife he is sure to take and surrounded by the children he is sure to sire.

It is not their destiny to love each other.

Song fills the air again, the praise of starlight and joy and safety that travels high above into the heavens and leads the ship of Eärendil across the sky. Thranduil sits on his throne and watches, with a heart heavier than the occasion warrants, as Tauriel and Legolas take care to include the Dwarven children in the celebrations: how Bombur and Frerin are made to dance in a circle with the Elves, how others are taken to the tables and fed snacks so different from what they are used to, how even little Dís is carried piggy-back on Hithion's shoulders as though a very small sibling. Only Thorin refuses to leave the Elvenking's side, although he must find it more difficult as time goes by: Thranduil speaks naught a word to him, lost in thought and in pretence.

'Shan't the King grace us with song?' The young prince asks finally, in a voice hushed enough not to be heard by many, yet loud enough for the few who caught it to freeze in trepidation.

It is well-known in the Woodland Realm that the Elvenking has lost his song, although Thorin, who most likely heard about his small performance for the children in Erebor, must not possess this knowledge. Still, Thranduil feels irrationally angry with him: how dare he demand anything from him in that entitled manner, how dare he ask for something the Elvenking is not willing to give? How dare he sway his heart and steal his thoughts?

'Indeed I shall not,' Thranduil replies mildly, although it takes great effort not to show irritation. 'Why, indeed I hoped you would sing for us, O prince of Erebor. I was very much impressed with your performances at your grandfather's court.'

Thorin laughs, but he has a pleased expression even through the flush that adorns his cheeks.

'Oh, is my song fit for the Elven ears?' He asks almost coquettishly. His face is full of mischief and youth. Thranduil's love for him in that exact moment is wild and uncontrollable. If not for the numerous eyes on their exchange, he would just lean down and give him a kiss. Oh how sad, how wretched his soul has become. Oh how low has he fallen: for he almost has no care for tradition and low, only for the respect he may lose in the eyes of his people were he to act out on his deranged desires.

'Let the Elven ears decide,' he says and orders, 'somebody bring him a harp! Prince Thorin will play and sing for us.'

So Thorin is given a harp and so he begins to play. At first, he pulls the strings at random, seemingly uncertain what song to choose – but finally he decides. The notes that come from under his fingers are long and clear, the melody they make – sad and loving. He does not look at Thranduil during the performance, but even though the song he plays is in Khuzdul, the Elvenking knows the young prince is singing for him. He understands select words, like _stars_ and _silver_ and _forever._ He hopes none of Thorin's audience understands more of the language. Well, obviously the children do, but it's unlikely they suspect their prince of harbouring indecent feelings for an Elf.

He hopes so.

 

4.

The arrival of Lord Girion of Dale in the morn is a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. For a Man, Girion is sensible and well-mannered, very much unlike his father who ruled the city before him: a forceful, brutish person that he was, with a strong sense of entitlement. Thranduil used to dislike all dealings with the city as it was before. He does not hate it as much now; yet, even though he is glad to welcome the Lord of Dale to his festive halls, he is not as joyous over the thought of the man's three daughters who are all in an age of folly – same age as the young prince of Erebor – being there as well.

Yet to his pleasure, Thorin appears to have no interest in conversation with the girls, no matter how pretty and willing for his interest they seem to be: indeed, the young prince immediately takes to lending his ear to Lord Girion instead, listening in as trade of luxury goods is being discussed. He should not be present during such debates, but to be completely honest, Thranduil would much rather have his politics being completely revealed to the Dwarven prince than allow him time to change his mind about the company of Inga, Hilde and Astrid.

Yes, he is jealous. Deep down he is ashamed.

'Hunting for game in Greenwood the Great has been limited over the years. The people have been talking. Apparently, the general opinion is that this matter requires renegotiation,' Lord Girion says, effectively capturing all of the Elvenking's attention.

'No,' he says simply.

'My Lord Thranduil,' Girion protests, but the words die down under the withering look from the Elvenking. He tries again, much more hesitant this time: 'My Lord, the conditions we are under are much too strict-'

'They are strict for a reason,' Thranduil says. He remembers having the same argument with the former Lord of Dale. Maybe Girion is not so unlike his father, after all. Greedy and hungry for blood, the lot of them are: the world of Men could not be further from what the world of Elves will remain to be. He sighs. Dwarves, he supposes, are not the only folk who refuse to listen to reason.

'The city is willing to pay three times the current permission wage for a right to an increased hunt,' Girion replies, still arguing his case. 'Be it in gold, gems or goods. My Lord, please at least consider this offer. There is an abundance of game in the woods, certainly a small rise of the hunting rate will not change-'

'I know the name and day of birth of each and every single creature living in my forest,' Thranduil cuts him off and looks at him in defiance. 'From the moment they are born to the moment of their passing, from the smallest insect to the biggest predator, each being in existence in these woods is connected to me through an ancient bond forged from the centuries over which I have extended my protection over my kingdom. What you ask is that I allow your people to hunt down and kill the creatures that have entrusted their safety to me. And for what, Lord Girion? For the pleasure that the bloodbath shall bring your people? I think not,' he finishes and rises from his seat. He still offers the man a glass of wine, despite the coldness that now fills his heart at his presence.

Girion is silent for a longest moment, during which Thorin appears restless in his seat. Finally, the Dwarven prince seems to lose his patience and so he speaks unbidden:

'If hunting for sports is all the Men of Dale crave, why not hunt the Wargs up north in the Grey Mountains? It is quite a ways from the city, but I am sure the parties could be organized in the Kingdom Under the Mountain. My Grandfather would be most overjoyed indeed, and I cannot imagine that there would be opposition for setting camp within the northern borders of Greenwood as long as the Elven law is respected at all times. If it is skins and furs you are after, Wargs provide enough of those. As an addition, the participants could always call themselves heroes who hunt down the vile creatures that have invaded all of our homes plenty of times in the past.'

'You are outspoken for one so young, my prince,' Girion comments dryly when the Dwarf falls silent, seemingly finally realizing that he has stepped far out of line in a meeting he is not even supposed to be present at.

'I apologize,' Thorin mutters. He looks miserable.

Thranduil takes pity on him. 'There is no need to apologize for no harm has been done. Your idea is an interesting one, albeit impossible and possibly naïve, with no political value beyond the diplomacy that would supposedly soothe the delicate tempers between two leaders,' he comments. 'Worry not, Thorin: Lord Girion has no reason to fear me or my moods and I know the same of him.'

'This hostility you are witnessing is but an act designed to get a rise out of the other, my prince. It is borne out of familiarity,' Girion explains 'We have been participants in a friendship for close to a decade. Believe me when I say that I have heard worse scorn and more vitriolic words from the Elvenking in my time. This now is like an argument between unruly children.'

Thranduil can see how now, Thorin feels awkward for having spoken. He is so young, this reminds him: so inexperienced yet with the matters of the court and the peculiar ways in which politics can be conducted when the politicians in question are not enemies but friends instead. He has time to learn. Like this, listening in on others talking and offering, suggesting and refusing in turn, he will come to possess the knowledge required for him to one day become a king upon the throne of Erebor. Thranduil will see to it. He will watch over the young prince. He will look at him, one day, and see the greatest Dwarven king in history.

So he vows to himself on that day.

'Warg hunting,' Girion says thoughtfully and gives Thranduil a look of consideration. The Elvenking, too, finds the idea interesting to say the least. He understands, to a certain degree, the Mannish need for hunt, as much as an Elf could possibly understand an urge so barbaric as this. But the death of animals in his forest, he deems unnecessary and cruel; as King of the Woodland Realm, he governs over the lives of not just his Elven subjects and he is solely responsible for the fates of all living creatures in the Greenwood.

'I heard my Grandfather speaking to my Father of a bit of trouble with Wargs near our northern borders,' Thorin mutters, 'and I thought I had a helpful idea. I see now that it is not my place.'

He is so miserable like this, scorned and berated where he expected praise, and Thranduil wants to take him into his arms, embrace him tightly and explain the world to him. What a view of him it would present to Lord Girion: the great Elvenking whose memories dated back to when the land was shaped differently and the creatures inhabiting it were unlike anything a Man could remember – snuggling up with a young Dwarven prince and telling him stories in hopes of broadening his view of what surrounds him. But if anyone could possibly forgive such transgression, it would be Lord Girion himself: every bit the Man tales of olden heroes spoke about.

Thranduil knew many Men in his time. Even so, he thinks of Girion of Dale as remarkable.

'I shall discuss this venture with Thrór on my next visit,' the Elvenking says. He nods graciously, enjoying the hopeful smile that finds its way back to Thorin's youthful face. This is one expression that suits him well. Young age should go in pair with hope; the forlorn look of one confused and hurt should never adorn the face of one of Thorin's years. But if it is to be Thranduil's choice, he shall make it so that until the end of his days, Thorin will forever have hope in his heart and joy in his eyes.

'There is much to be discussed yet, but it can wait,' the Elvenking says eventually, after trade of woodwork and medicinal resources has been agreed upon. He can see that Thorin is tired, and no wonder – he is not used to getting little to no sleep, unlike the Firstborn who need not fall into dreams in order to be well-rested. After the activities of the night, the excitement that kept them all awake, Thorin should by all means be fast asleep not unlike his siblings and the other children – but stubbornly he persists, perhaps unwilling to miss one moment of Thranduil's attention.

Unwise as it is, Thranduil allows him use of his own bed instead of having him escorted to the guest chambers. Lord Girion, if he notices how unusual it is, says nothing.

 

5.

It is but a courtesy to extend an invitation of stay until the end of the festivities to Lord Girion and his family. The Man accepts and his daughters are pleased: not many have had the opportunity to be guests of the Elvenking during the fabled Feast of Starlight. Fickle and folly are their personalities, Thranduil thinks, but he is also aware that he is judging too harshly: comparing them, maybe, to a Dwarven prince who sleeps yet in the grand bed in his private chambers, protected from the first chills of Winter under the covers made of the finest silks woven by Thranduil himself. In his eyes, not a soul can compete against Thorin in a battle of wit nor talent, nor of fairness of face; unusual beauty such as the young prince possesses warrants no match.

He is but a fool in love.

The Elvenking spends much of his time during the day observing the view of the young Dwarf asleep half-dressed in his bed, appreciating the opportunity it gives him to admire and learn all that is different between the two of them and what is similar. Thorin is tall for his race, but still much shorter than the shortest of Elves; Thranduil, who is himself of a height much above average, knows he will ever tower over the prince even if he grows a measure before he reaches adulthood. Despite the differences, there is nothing repulsive in the short, muscular stature of Thorin's body; where Elves are lean and long-limbed, the prince is sturdy and thick, but it is not a thickness made through excessive eating – instead, it is all hard musculature born out of long training and exercise. The abundance of body hair, Thranduil finds curious. He wonders what is the purpose of such amount. Where he is smooth and hairless, Thorin has patches of dark that accentuate muscle, growing thicker on his chest, thinner down his stomach and then thickening again down his abdomen.

He wonders what he would find further down, but he restrains himself. Abusing Thorin's trust in him, allowing himself to use the young Dwarven prince in a state when he is unable to consent to such activity, all just for the sake of satiating his own curiosity – just the thought of it fills Thranduil's heart with revulsion. So he backs off, watches from a respectable distance as Thorin's chest rises and falls in a peaceful pattern of undisturbed dreams, aware that even this is an unforgivable act, aware that he is like a predator watching his prey from the shadows.

Even if he does not look like such, Thorin is but a child. It is long yet before he reaches maturity n the aspect of being battle-ready; longer yet before he could be deemed ready to marry and sire children. Desiring him is wrong. Thranduil never asked for this attraction and as he looks at the prince, he curses the day their eyes first met in the halls of Erebor and the day his soul became complete once more.

'Why is the prince sleeping in your chambers?' Legolas asks at midday when he comes by to take a meal with his father. His whole demeanour is changed from the previous day: where last night his suspicious nature was calmed, now it is awoken and on the prowl. He is perceptive. Has he noticed the longing with which Thranduil regards the young Dwarf? Has he beheld their interactions and solved their hidden meaning? Has he spoken to Lord Girion, maybe, and shared with him the observations regarding his father's unsightly conduct?

'He was tired, so I allowed him to rest in my bed as I have no need for it at this time,' the Elvenking replies simply, but he gives his son an assessing gaze. Is there doubt in Legolas' eyes as he processes his father's words? Does he disbelieve the truthfulness of Thranduil's account?

'I saw at the feast and it is as you told me: the Dwarf only has eyes for you,' Legolas says gently. 'Yet I do not recall you telling me you only have eyes for him, _ada_.'

'Do not be impertinent,' the Elvenking chastises.

Legolas has the decency to lower his gaze, but there is defiance still in his stance. He must have come to an opinion in his mind and he wishes to divulge it, if only so that his father disproves it with a solid argument. For the first time, Thranduil thinks about what his inappropriate love for the young Dwarven prince, a _male,_ would come to bring his son if anyone else found out: shame, dishonour and grief. To love and desire without hope for creating new life is naught but a sin, a crime against the nature of all things. Even if the sin is Thranduil's, it would forever mar the life of Legolas, his son, because Elves never forget nor forgive the deeds of the past.

'It is improper, _ada_ , for him to sleep in your bed. What if someone were to witness you sharing in such an intimacy with your guest?' Legolas asks. He is quiet now. Thoughtful.

'He is only resting,' Thranduil protests. 'How is it intimate, _ion nín_? I have let an exhausted child sleep in my chambers to spare him the walk down the halls.'

'I wish you naught but happiness,' Legolas says simply. 'I hope you are aware.'

At times, Thranduil does not understand his son's heart in the least.

 

6.

The second night of the Feast of Starlight brings even more cheer, more song and dancing. Tauriel, who has been in the woods the night before, is now present and her wonderment at the Dwarven children fills Thranduil with a sense of pride: for this girl's heart knows naught of the judgemental nature of Elves in regards to other races. She finds the Dwarves curious, yes, as would anyone as young as herself, but in this curiosity she is filled with joy. She is good with young ones. Dís and Bombur chatter with her incessantly, Vili and Dori, who are slightly older, tell her stories of great Orc huntings their fathers apparently have under their belts and even prince Frerin, normally so ill-disposed towards Elves, is at ease in Tauriel's presence to the point where he seemingly confides in her something rather important to his innocent self. Soon enough, Legolas and, subsequently, Lord Girion's daughters join Tauriel and the children.

This, on the other hand, drives Thorin away and causes him to walk up to Thranduil by the throne. The Elvenking expects him to talk, to start a conversation about anything at all, but the prince remains silent and gloomy somehow, as though his mood is darkened. Thranduil finds it odd: he knows that Thorin is well-rested and well-fed, so there is no reason, really, for the way he acts. Yet there he is, a silent shadow by Thranduil's side. It cannot do.

'If there is a cause for the frown marring your face, please do share. Maybe I would deem it fit to relieve you of such burden,' the Elvenking says softly.

'A most curious rumour has reached my ears tonight,' Thorin replies immediately, but he does not look up to see Thranduil's face. 'It has saddened me, even though there has been no confirmation to be seen. I apologize that I do not make an interesting companion.'

'Thorin,' Thranduil calls, 'I wish only to help lighten your mood.'

'Then maybe you should not have invited me here,' Thorin mutters, offended, 'to watch you choose a bride when you know so well of my feelings towards you.'

This leaves Thranduil speechless. A bride? What folly, what nonsense! Is there really such news circulating amongst his people? In but a thousand years, not once has he indicated romantic interest in a new marriage. How much he must have changed, upon meeting Thorin, to give rise to such rumours! He spares a thought to the behaviours he could have exhibited to arise suspicion, but he remembers not a single transgression. May it be that he smiles more? May it be that the wedding speech he gave on the night before has been wrongly interpreted?

'I have no plan to select a bride,' Thranduil says calmly.

Thorin frowns at that. 'It is a coincidence, then, that Lord Girion has brought his daughters with him when their usefulness for matters of diplomacy is otherwise limited. Is this what you claim? And, similarly, it is a coincidence that so many Elven maidens surround you on this occasion.'

'I would assume so,' Thranduil admits. 'Your jealousy is as unfounded, young prince, as it is unjust. Remember, please, that even though you assure me of your feelings, I have yet to acknowledge you to be more than a mere child with delusions. Smile now, my young friend. _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ is for joy, not for grieving over folly.'

Thorin still looks away, however, and only speaks up when Lord Girion asks him about one thing or another in regards to Erebor. The Elvenking is confused and slightly hurt by the cold demeanour, which is why he readily accepts the wine brought to him by Merilhel. But he is not allowed to finish it in peace: the Dwarven prince takes the chalice out of his hands and downs it to the last drop, like a man dying of thirst. Thranduil stares at him, bewildered, and it is with the same bewilderment that he watches the young prince fall.

Within a moment he is kneeled with Thorin unconscious in his arms. Unconscious, but not fully maybe, because he is thrashing and writhing within the embrace, at times screaming in terror. His breathing is laboured and his heart, Thranduil can feel in his pulse, is beating wildly.

'Poison,' the Elvenking whispers and looks up at Merilhel, and there must be a genuine hatred in his eyes because the maiden takes a step back in fear. 'He is poisoned. Seize her!'

Tauriel and Legolas are quick to follow the order. Lord Girion immediately steps up to contain the disorder that is sure to arise, and Thranduil wastes no more time to carry Thorin swiftly back to the citadel to find safety. In the back of his mind, he knows he is acting in a panic, but there is a dark fog encircling his thoughts as he passes the vast halls in great haste, calling for aid where none will come: the citadel itself is deserted, as all who could are in the woods, celebrating the stars with love and adoration.

Thranduil, in his despair, brings Thorin to his own chambers where he stores an amount of herbs. He is no expert in the arts of healing, yet he knows of things that were shared with him by his late father: of silver flowers of the moon which bloom in late Autumn and have the power to cure all illness of the world; of the words of power which, whispered into the ear of the victim, will draw out the sickness and cast it away.

And so he lays Thorin on the bed, mindful of the young prince's comfort, and places one single moonflower between his pain-stricken lips. And he leans down to the Dwarf's ear and, through the pitiful moans of pain and fear, he whispers a prayer, he chants a spell, and his own voice is hoarse and feverish as he hears it. But it matters not: for before his very eyes, the flower between Thorin's lips blackens and begins to wither. The Elvenking discards it like a thing of poison and it burns him, burns his fingers, before disintegrating in a burst of smoke and foul air.

Thorin is calm now, his breathing is even. His large hands are no longer curled into fists, his body no longer thrashes against Thranduil's grip. The Elvenking listens and watches for signs of sickness still in the young prince, but the heartbeat is regular, faster than an Elf's and slower than a Man's, and his flesh is warming up, and he is simply asleep.

'That was no normal sickness,' Thranduil says to himself. No poison he knows of feels this evil to the touch – no poison is capable of corrupting the pure bloom of Autumn into something that burns the body of one who touches it. He looks upon his fingers, the tips of which are charred and blackened and have not yet healed. They ache with a dull kind of pain, like an old wound that he pretends to have forgotten about. As he stares at the burns, they slowly disappear, leaving only pale skin in their wake. They do not scar. It is as though they never really existed: but not a moment ago, that same dark essence was inside of Thorin, devouring his mind and body. Unwillingly, he finds his mind drawn to the shadows deepening in the West of his kingdom. He shivers.

Thranduil has many questions, which he will ask the apprehended maiden. Later.

For now, he guards Thorin's dreams.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: interrogation, Dwarven customs, Elven history and petty grievances.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter:  
> Young prince Thorin visits the Woodland Realm to attend festivities on invitation from the Elvenking. Legolas becomes suspicious of his father's behaviour. Girion of Dale arrives at the same time to discuss trade agreements. Politics and celebrations of starlight don't go well together: in the overall confusion, a dangerous plot is revealed.


End file.
